


Wine to Water

by Otherworlder



Series: Our Most Beloved Hero-King of Many Guises [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:20:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24691432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otherworlder/pseuds/Otherworlder
Summary: Denethor will do anything to learn the truth about the mysterious Thorongil, even if it means stepping on love freely given and crushing Thorongil's beating heart with his own bare hands.
Series: Our Most Beloved Hero-King of Many Guises [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785142
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	Wine to Water

At the end of audience the messenger from Rohan exclaimed, “And I am overjoyed to see Captain Thorongil so well-settled here. He truly looks at home among his own. Why, he and the Lord Denethor can almost be brothers!”

Ecthelion laughed merrily at this remark, while Thorongil smiled with an incline of his head. But Denethor only sat there, still as a statue and expressionless, the nearly imperceptible frown casting a faint shadow on his eyes.

Denethor has lost count of how many times people took Thorongil and him for brothers. So many had gushed over their similarities: the towering heights, the raven black hair, and the piercing silver-grey eyes. A pair of fine Numenorean lords they made: one powerful and endearing like the sun, another high and stern like the moon. None had ever uttered such a remark with malice; it was always said with admiration and awe, as an observation of a respectable peculiarity. No one really suspected the Lord Steward Ecthelion of siring any bastard, except for perhaps Denethor. It was not that Denethor doubted the integrity of his own father, but only that he did not believe in coincidence and peculiarity. A common sellsword does not by chance look like a highborn lord of the West, nor does the Steward of Gondor by chance become so enamored with a stranger.

It was unclear even to Denethor himself why he should feel especially incensed now. After all, he had heard similar remarks repeated by many, even his own father. But on this particularly day, as the messenger from Rohan took his leave, Denethor became determined: today would be the day for some real answers.

So he invited Thorongil to share a drink with him, on the pretext of having received some new spring wine from Lossarnach which would make war councils less tedious. Thorongil was obviously surprised by this invitation, curious and a shade hopeful, almost as if he saw a chance to make an unlikely friend. But alas, impossible—Denethor did not trust his rival to be so naïve.

For the two glasses of wine they discussed actual affairs of the state: rangers in Ithilien, watchers east of Anduin, fortification of Osgiliath and Cair Andros, even utterly tedious matter like expected harvest and tax rate. They drank the third glass in silence. The two of them hardly made a companionable pair, but excellent wine made the silence less awkward than it should have been.

After Denethor drained his third glass he suddenly spoke up, “I cannot but think of the Rohirrim’s remarks earlier. You look at home and among your own, he said. Do you feel so, Thorongil? Are you at home here, alone and in the midst of strangers?”

Thorongil looked startled. A faraway look flashed across his face, then he answered, slow with deliberate care, “I am among friends here, my lord. Gondor is as much a home to me as Rohan, or the place of my birth and childhood. The people of Gondor are my own, if they would have me.”

“A man of many homes you are, Thorongil,” Denethor remarked.

“I have traveled to many places, yes, but that will not make me love Gondor any less, nor would my loyalty waver.”

Denethor waved a hand and snapped with a bite of impatience, “At ease, captain, I am not insinuating anything. I may be the last soul in Gondor who refuses to love you, but even I would not question your loyalty. Give me a little more credit. I am merely curious—and even uncomfortable, I admit—at how little we know of your origin and your true home.”

Thorongil looked even more startled than before, hopelessly confused by Denethor’s bluntness. Certainly Denethor has always been a direct, pithy speaker who abhorred pretense, but he was also a guarded man. Under normal circumstances Denethor would never speak so much and so openly to his greatest rival. Thorongil stole a brief glance at the wine glass—was Lossarnach’s new brew really so potent?

So Thorongil spoke gently, “We have concluded all business at hand and finished an entire bottle of this fine wine, my lord, perhaps…”

“Have some more wine, Thorongil,” Denethor said, already opening a second bottle and filling both glasses, “Tell me a little of your home, where you grew up. I am quite curious.”

Seeing no polite way to refuse the wine or the conversation, Thorongil replied, “I believe I have mentioned this before, I grew up in the north, west of the Misty Mountains. The land was rugged and wild, without great cities of stone like here in the south, only small towns and hidden manors scattered across the woodland. My childhood home would no doubt seem rustic and quaint to the lords of Gondor, but I find it exceedingly beautiful.”

“And your father, a rustic and quaint country knight then?”

The answer came rather swiftly, “My father passed away when I was very young; I have next to no memory of him. I have answered this question before, my lord Denethor, why bring it up now?”

“Ah, the guards are up again, I see, secretive and vigilant like a hunted deer,” Denethor said with a cryptic smile, “Yet I am the one often accused of being cold and distant. How do you make friends if you never tell any tales of friends and family and childhood? In any case, Thorongil, I am not your hunter and I should not cause your fear. I am but a curious colleague. Hide your father’s name if you will; tell me a little of your mother.”

Thorongil blinked. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

“Your mother. Or did she pass away when you were young as well? Surely a man of your stock and breeding did not grow up an orphan living on others’ charity.”

“She did not. But perhaps I should leave you to rest,” Thorongil said gently, “You had quite a few glasses of wine.”

Denethor smiled again and raised his glass, “And you not nearly enough. Drink, captain, a toast to your mother in faraway land; let me thank this fine woman for giving Gondor her mightiest captain.”

Thorongil raised his glass and drank, for no man could refuse a toast offered in honor of his mother. He wondered briefly if all this Lossarnach wine was Denethor’s ploy to pry secrets from him, but then had to dismiss the idea. He had a reputation in the seven circles of the city for never refusing a drink offered his way and never being the least affected; surely Denethor knew of this.

“So tell me a little of her. Is she dark or fair-haired? Decisive or soft-spoken?” Denethor pressed once more.

So Thorongil took another sip of wine and began, “She is known as the fair one among her people, who are mostly dark-haired, but her hair is pure gold. She is gentle and soft-spoken, but she is wise and sees much, so when she does speak everyone heeds her insight.”

“Just like you, I suppose that is what you want me to say.”

Everything Denethor was saying this night sounded unlike Denethor. He was too caustic, too rude, and way too familiar. One too many glass of wine, Thorongil concluded, and thought again to take his leave. But Denethor did not give him that opportunity.

The heir of the Steward of Gondor suddenly blurted out, “Is your mother exceedingly beautiful? She must be, if she could make my father forget himself, however momentarily.”

Thorongil froze, he was still from head to toe, as if suddenly turned to a statue of stone. Only his long fingers tightened around the wine glass, knuckles turning a shade whiter.

“I beg your pardon, my lord?” He said in a low voice.

Denethor did not speak immediately, for he was busy drinking copious amount of wine. But after he drained his—was it the fifth? Sixth?—glass of wine he spoke up again. “Come now, Thorongil, I do not blame you for your parentage. We have drunk enough to be perfectly honest with each other. I despise you for your existence, for you prove that even a great lord such as my father had a moment of utter weakness, but I can indeed admire you for the man you are—a fine specimen of Westernesse and a sharp sword for Gondor.”

“I beg you to speak plainly, my lord,” Thorongil spoke coldly, his hand now resting on the hilt of his sword, “I fail to understand your point.”

Denethor laughed, pouring himself yet another glass of wine he said, “Yes, let us speak plainly, brother mine. You father did not pass away when you were young, not in the strictest sense; he left and returned to his home and his station, for he is Ecthelion, Lord Steward of Gondor. Is that not so?”

“No, Denethor, absolutely not,” Thorongil’s voice was the dangerous rumble before a ferocious storm, “You have wronged my mother most grievously. She is a noble lady of unwavering faith, devoted to my father and him alone. Nor is the Lord Steward such a weak man to betray his marriage vows so.”

“You do not have to deny it so vehemently. With so much wine I would hardly remember this exchange on the morrow.”

“And you may count yourself fortunate to be so into your cups presently!” Thorongil thundered, “Were you any soberer I would have challenged you to a duel for my mother’s honor, heir to the Steward you may be.”

Denethor was silent for a long time. He cocked his head and watched Thorongil with this hard glint in his grey eyes, underneath the drunken haze. Thorongil stared back unflinchingly. He looked angry, but also uncharacteristically open, as if finally casting aside the veil of mystery he always wore.

“So you would categorically deny such allegation,” Denethor muttered.

The answer came swift and sure. “Yes, I would, for it is utter falsehood. Why would you even entertain such a thought, Denethor? Why would you wilfully besmirch the name of your father? You love me not, so what is there to gain by calling me brother?”

“What is there to gain? Ha!” Denethor laughed bitterly, “There is nothing to gain. And indeed, I love you not. Yet to have a brother like you would be the easiest truth! Do you not see?”

“Easiest truth? You are speaking nonsense.”

“Look at yourself!” Denethor raised his voice also, “Here be Numenorean blood undiminished, anyone with half an eye can see it. There are maybe three houses left in Gondor of such high lineage, and Imrahil really is too young to have this conversation with you. If you are not a grave error on my father’s part, who are you then? A bastard prince out of Rhovanion ready to start another kin-strife in Gondor? A king of the Black Numenoreans, here to enthrall us all? An enemy spy wearing the guise of a Dunadan? If you were my brother my heart would rest easier, despite the bitterness I must swallow.”

Thorongil was shocked into silence for a long while. At last he said, half angry and half hurt, “Is that what you think of me? That I must be born of shame, or else an enemy? Why should I not be an honest ally?”

“Honest ally?” Denethor laughed again, “An honest ally who names neither himself nor his father? An honest ally without a native land? An honest ally with no family to speak of? You must excuse me for not taking your word for it.”

“Your lord father is content to trust me on King Thengel’s recommendation and my own valor,” Thorongil said quietly.

“Which is why I thought—nay, rather say desperately hoped!—that his trust was founded on some secret knowledge and his love on an undeniable tie,” Another large gulp of wine here, “Why else would the Steward love a nameless stranger better than his own heir?”

“No, Denethor!” Thorongil exclaimed with a pained expression, “Your father loves you dearly, certainly more than me and perhaps more than all else in this world. I am but a friend and a servant; only you are his flesh and blood.”

Yet Denethor grew even more incensed. He barked out, “How dare you condescend me so?! Is this something a servant would say?”

“Nay, ‘tis no condescension, my lord…”

“Enough of that appellation,” Denethor cut him off mid-sentence, “Am I your lord? Do not say it if you do not mean it.”

Thorongil fell silent, watching Denethor drink with troubled eyes. After what seemed like forever he spoke slowly, “I swore a solemn oath of fealty to Gondor and those words will bind me to the end of my days. What else would you have as proofs of my loyalty? Ask, Denethor, and I shall give what I can.”

“Words are but words, and the hearts of men are hidden deeper than mithril. What would I have? Ha! Even if I should cut your heart from your chest and hold it beating in my hands, what does it prove? What proofs can there be?”

Thorongil shuddered, feeling suddenly chilled to the bones. To think the sun-drenched wine of Lossarnach should spur forth such cold, unrelenting words!

But then Denethor continued in a softer voice, “I suppose I just want the truth, Thorongil, and short of that, a reason would do. Uncertainty breeds misery, and ignorance is a constant torment. Why else do you think I would call you brother, you, the last person I can love? It gives reason to your unwelcome presence here. Whatever betrayal and shame I must live with, that is still better than not knowing at all.”

Silence again as Thorongil pondered Denethor’s words. This time he did not let Denethor monopolize the wine bottle and poured himself a full glass. After he downed an entire glass of wine he breathed a long sigh and began.

“Now then, Denethor, here is what truth I may give you,” Thorongil spoke quietly, “We are not blood brothers, but we are indeed akin from afar. I am neither born in shame nor an enemy; I too am a man of the West, and my life is pledged in service of all realms of the Faithful. I am here in Gondor because a great task is laid on me, to stem the rising tides of darkness and to renew the glory of old. A fool’s errand, perhaps, but I am set on this path and I can no more turn from it than you can turn from Gondor. I am no enemy! The shadows I reject utterly. And I am not here to usurp your place, Denethor, you will be Steward like all your forefathers before you, and all your descendants after you. I only ask for your trust and understanding, if love you cannot give.”

Thorongil paused here and watched Denethor intently. A strange firelight lit his grey eyes, sharp with eagerness and hope.

At last Denethor mumbled a seemingly drunken reply, “Trust and understanding, ha! No mere trinket you ask.”

“I ask for a great boon, I know, yet I too offer you my trust and loyalty, and love, if you will have it,” Thorongil said, his voice low but filled with a rare intensity.

Denethor laughed in a way that could almost be called uproarious for his normally restrained self.

“A pretty oath for a drunken hour!” The steward’s heir exclaimed, “How sweet those words. Even if I should forget everything tomorrow I am sure to remember the toothache.”

Thorongil too smiled lightly, but that intensity did not quite leave his eyes. He murmured, “Had we not finished those two bottles of wine, I would never be convinced to say these words to you, and you would hardly care to listen. Even if you cannot recall anything tomorrow, I shall not forget. I would be honored to call you brother, Denethor, for we are brothers in all but blood. We walk the same path, bound by the same purpose, and we shall rekindle the hope of Westernesse together, or else fall to the shadows side by side. Such are the fates of men at the end of an Age!”

He took Denethor’s hand and kissed it, saying, “I offer you the love of a brother, Denethor. My sword will hew down your enemies, and my shield will defend you from harm; my banner will unfurl from places unlooked for at your darkest hour, and I will come, always, when your horn sounds. This I swear to you, heir of the House of Hurin.”

Thorongil still spoke in that same quiet, level voice, but he sounded distinctly different. He sounded like the call of a hundred trumpets echoing between mountain peaks, like the rush of waves breaking upon great ships or the song of wind in a thousand sails.

Denethor thought he could see Thorongil’s words taking physical form: a line of glowing runes, warping, lengthening, slowly spinning into a thread that ties fates and souls together…

Denethor stood up abruptly, sword drawn in a flash.

“What do you think you are doing?” Denethor hissed.

Thorongil blinked owlishly. The white fire burning about him snuffed out, and that intense look of purpose was replaced by one of surprise and confusion. A long, dragged out pause, and then he began uncertainly, “Denethor, I…”

“Stay back, I have heard and seen enough,” Denethor snarled, his grip on the sword tightening.

They stared at each other for a long time, before Thorongil murmured, “I am only offering you an oath of good faith, Denethor.”

“Or to extricate one from me?” Denethor bit back.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do not patronize me!” Denethor cried out angrily, “I am finally beginning to understand your delusions. I care not whose son you are, or whose heir; I care not how many trinkets you can produce to prove it. High King returned you are not, and you hold claim over neither Gondor nor me!”

“Who do you think I am?” Thorongil asked, eyes narrowing.

“The leftover of some once noble house that now barely remembers its own name. You grew tired of the crude villages and the wild nothingness of the North, no doubt, and wandered here looking to swindle a throne. But you are a mere sellsword, you are nobody, with neither home nor connections, nothing to your name. You should do well to remember that!”

“You think this is why I came to Gondor? Why, Denethor?”

“You said so yourself,” Denethor said coldly, “What glory of old do you seek to renew? And what kinship from afar would you claim? I am no kin of yours, nor can I be bound to you! I am to be the Steward of Gondor one day, the liege lord to whom you swore your fealty.”

A look of realization suddenly dawned on Thorongil. He murmured, “You were never affected by all that wine, the drunken speech was but a ploy.”

“You are perfectly sober yourself, so why do you suppose a man of equal stature and better breeding should be so affected?”

“And of course you never truly believed the slander about lord Ecthelion. All those insults then, all that feigned hurt and weakness, they were but a scheme. To what end, Denethor?”

“It is ‘my lord’ to you!” Denethor spat out, “I wanted the truth about you, and I have learned more than I cared to learn. My father’s fawning will not protect you forever, Thorongil, one day I will put your delusions in their proper place.”

“You…”

Thorongil was trembling. He stood straight, but he was shaking like a leaf in a winter storm. He spoke with great difficulty, “Indeed you held my heart beating in your hands and still asked what it proves. And then you crushed it to dust. Such a ruler of men you are.”

His face was ghostly pale, and his eyes burned red with a fell light. No one had ever seen Gondor’s soft-spoken and affable captain so furious. He looked ready to draw his sword and split whatever stood in his way, or else cast forth a terrible curse. Denethor suddenly thought of the Army of the Dead beneath the White Mountains, cursed by Isildur to forever wander without rest. Perhaps he was about to receive a similar judgment. Denethor felt fear rising like black tides, but he schooled expression to show nothing but coldness and hate.

“If the soothing of wine is but a tool to you, if any unguarded moment but a lie and a ploy, then it shall always be so, son of Ecthelion,” Thorongil said softly, “May your wine forever tastes like water! For why would you need it any other way? I take my leave of you, my lord.”

Thorongil was gone with a faint swish of his cloak, and a door slammed behind him.

Barely a day later Denethor was sitting right beside Thorongil once more, accompanying Ecthelion at dinner. Denethor was tense as a bow string, following Thorongil’s every move with his eyes. Would this man retaliate somehow? Thorongil was still his usual self, as if nothing had ever happened, and he would even smile when he spoke to Denethor. Yet there was something changed in his eyes when he looked at Denethor, the warm and open glow replaced by polite distance, as if a door had slammed shut.

Denethor was so distracted that it took him quite a few sips to notice something wrong with his wine. He beckoned for the servant and was ready to snap out a reprimand when suddenly he froze.

“My lord?” The servant asked quietly from his side.

But Denethor only stared at his glass, half-full of the finest wine from the south, sparkling red like rubies. He could even smell the aroma of grapes.

But still his wine tasted like water.


End file.
